


Inappropriate

by rufeepeach



Series: Spindle [1]
Category: Once Upon A Time - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:37:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/pseuds/rufeepeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabelle's been working in Mr Gold's pawnshop for three weeks before the tension finally becomes too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inappropriate

_Her fingers run through soft, dark hair, as her eyes close tight._

_Warm skin, pressing against every part of her own, dark eyes watching so intently as she gasps his name, heart pounding in her ears…._

Isabelle heard the bell over the shop ring, and was startled out of her daydream. She reached up and felt the blush forming on her cheeks as she remembered her fantasy.

It was happening far to regularly. When she first started work, three weeks ago, this wasn’t really an issue.

Mr Gold was never around, at first, always running errands around town, and avoided her the few times they were in the shop at the same time. She had been certain that he didn’t like her, and had only hired her because she was the only viable applicant for the job.

That had changed over time. He’d started to spend more time with her at work, tell her about the items for sale and the town itself.

She’d lived in Storybrooke her whole life, but listening to him made her feel as if she’d only just moved in.

And after just three weeks into their working relationship, she was sat in the back room having very… heated fantasies about her employer.

She could hear the customer milling around in the shop, creaking the floorboards with their footsteps, fiddling with the wind chime everyone messed with at some point.

She heard the regular tap of Gold’s cane as he approached the visitor. She had been around him enough now to observe his routine: he seemed to take great joy in sneaking up on preoccupied customers, on giving them that mysterious, almost omnipotent stare that had so unnerved her when she first interviewed for the job.

She heard them talking, not recognising the customer’s voice but hearing his clear as day.

Finally, the voices stopped, the bell chimed, and she could hear him heading toward the back. It was only then that she realised she was still staring out of the window, lost in thought.

She smoothed her short denim skirt over her knees, settling herself better on her high stool, and struggled to look busy before he caught her. Daydreaming about him.

Naked. And fucking her brains out.

That was an awkward conversation she didn’t need.

“Miss French, would you pass me that lamp back there?” she heard his voice, low and gentle and Scottish, and felt a little shiver run down her spine. She hurried to obey, grabbing an old-style lamp from behind some pottery and handing it to him.

Her eyes didn’t mean to meet his. But they did, and he cracked that lopsided smile that made her heart skip, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

“Thank you.” He tugged the lamp out of her hands, and she realised she hadn’t let go of it.

She felt the blush rising in her cheeks again, and looked away, back down at the silverware she was polishing in her hands. She felt him settle beside her on the other stool, and watched out of the corner of her eye as he turned the lamp over and over in his careful, patient hands.

“That’s a strange lamp.” She commented, after a few seconds of this.

“Yes.”

“Is it… Arabian?” she guessed, drawing on her slim knowledge of history to help her out.

“Agraban, actually, but yes, to all intents and purposes.”

“Oh.” She paused for a moment, “I’ve never seen anything like it. Who wants to buy it?”

“Sydney Glass.” A smile, the wide, almost wicked smile she’d come to know so well, spread over his face.

“The editor of the newspaper? He wants a weird old lamp?”

“You’ve worked here almost a month now, Miss French,” he said, “Haven’t you noticed that people around here often buy things without knowing why?"

She nodded: she _had_ noticed that. She stared down at the lamp again, eyes narrowing, and almost unconsciously she reached her hands out to hold it.

Unfortunately – or perhaps _fortunately_ – he didn’t move his hands when she placed hers on the side of the lamp.

Their skin met, her palms cupped over the backs of his fingers, and it was like a shot of pure electricity running from her palms and up her arms, rushing through her entire body and sending shivers across her skin.

She tried to move her hands away, hoping that they could pass it off as another in a series of odd moments, meant to be ignored and saved for midnight fantasies.

Until she felt his fingers weave with hers. They didn’t hold on, didn’t press her hands back to the lamp and force them to stay, they just lay between her fingers and lightly – so lightly she might have imagined it – caressed the skin there.

She looked up, eyes bright, skin flushed, and found him looking at her with an expression of such wonder, such innocent bewilderment, that it nearly broke her heart.

His face was closer than she’d remembered, and she wondered when they’d moved their stools closer, when their knees started touching under the table, when they’d become close enough that if she just leaned up a little bit, she could press her lips against his.

Her breathing came out shallow, her heart beating in double-time. But he didn’t move. He didn’t try to kiss her – but he didn’t move away, either.

The reality of the situation finally dawned and, mortified, she moved her hands off his and jumped off the stool, fiddling with her hair and straightening her skirt nervously. She turned, and made a move for the door, hoping she could go out into the shop, leaving him in the back room, and that by the time they spoke again they could pretend it hadn’t happened.

But just as her palm hit the doorknob, she felt a cool hand encircle her wrist and pull her backward.

Mr Gold’s expression was unreadable, but there was a deep darkness in his eyes that made her stomach churn and her knees weaken.

She only had time to make a surprised little yelp before he’d slammed her back against the door, his hands pinning her wrists beside her head and his mouth hard and insistent against hers.

She opened for him immediately, and felt his tongue sweep inside, plundering her mouth and not allowing any room to respond. She moaned, feeling him press his entire body against hers, holding her against the door with no chance of movement.

She moved her hands, desperate to run her fingers through his hair, to feel if it was as soft as she had imagined.

And then, as suddenly as he had started, he stopped. He pulled back, releasing her wrists and stepping away. He looked absolutely stunned at himself, “I’m sorry, Miss French. I don’t know what came over me.”

“What?” she ran a finger over her now swollen lips, unable to comprehend that sudden shift, “Sorry for what?”

“For accosting you like that. It was completely inappropriate, and I apologize.” He was moving backward, his whole stance suddenly closed off.

“Please, don’t apologize.” She said, smiling. It was quite nice to feel like she had just a little bit of control over this.

“What?” he was so adorable when he was all confused and puzzled. When he was looking at her like that, like he had no idea at all of what she was going to do next.

“I said, don’t apologize.” She took a step forward, so they were toe-to-toe, almost eye-to-eye.

“Wh-” he didn’t finish his question, because she grabbed his tie – red, to contrast with the black of his shirt and jacket; it was one of her favourites of his suits – and pulled his mouth back down against hers.

She worked her lips over his, encouraging him to allow her inside. She moved her tongue carefully, tripping over the roof of his mouth, playing with his own tongue. She felt him groan, and something in him seemed to snap.

Within moments she was back pinned against the door, although this time he let her keep her hands in his hair. It really was as soft as she’d imagined.

\---

Her tights were bunched around the tops of her boots; her shirt rolled up around her hips.

She wished that they’d had time to properly undress each other. She had a deep craving to see all of him; to feel every inch of his skin pressed against hers.

And yet there was something perfect about this strange situation.

He pounded into her, hips at just the perfect angle so she moaned and shuddered with every thrust, and she could sense – even behind closed eyes – his smug smirk every time.

He fucked her like it was their last chance. Like he’d waited lifetimes for this.

They’d known each other for three weeks, but he looked at her like he’d loved her for a thousand years.  And even as he pinned her against the door, his thrusts hard and merciless and unrelenting, his hands cupped her face with the most tender touch she’d ever felt.

She could feel the tension burning in her stomach, coiling and twisting tighter and tighter until her whole body was on fire, until she was ready to explode.

His hand left her cheek and trailed down the front of her t-shirt, leaving a trail of tingling skin beneath the thin cotton, and down between her legs.

She gasped his name as he moved his fingers through the wetness there, flicking at the sensitive bud of nerves even as he increased the pace of his cock, even as his jaw tightened, his whole body going tense as he neared his own release.

She came with a scream that echoed through the room, clinging to his shoulders as her climax triggered his own. His rhythm became erratic, thrusting into her harder and deeper than before as he rode it out.

Finally, he slumped against her and slipped out, as they came to rest against the door.

\---

She woke up a while later, to find herself lying a little uncomfortably on the floor, propped against the door into the shop. Something warm was wrapped around her, and she looked up to find Gold staring at her, an unfathomable expression on his face.

“Is this okay?” he asked, and he suddenly seemed so exposed, so ready to run away and close himself off, that she knew she had to choose her words carefully.

Words had failed them so far. Words let them inch around each other, flirting and keeping a distance. Actions lead to them fucking in the back room of his shop, breaking all the boundaries she’d hated so much.

So she leaned up, smiling, and kissed him. This kiss was sweet, tender, and she would have even said _loving_ if it wasn’t so unbelievable.

“What do you think?” she giggled, more out of pure happiness than any real humour, and his smile could have lit the whole of Storybrooke.


End file.
